


Apocalypse Chic

by itallstartedwithdefenestration



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Crack, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-21
Updated: 2016-11-21
Packaged: 2018-09-01 05:25:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8610487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itallstartedwithdefenestration/pseuds/itallstartedwithdefenestration
Summary: Rick and Negan's clothes get dirty. The only clean things left for them to wear are -- unexpected.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this is so self-indulgent and cracky it blows my mind. i had more fun writing this than i've had writing anything in a long time and i hope y'all enjoy it too. 
> 
> also posted on my [tumblr](http://interstellarsam.tumblr.com/post/153366180605/honestly-there-isnt-enough-ricknegan-fic-in-the).

There’s blood slathered mostly over Negan’s jacket and cascading down his jeans. It was in his hair until he grabbed the flask out of Dwight’s hand and drenched his head with it, then made him go refill so he could pour it on Rick too. Despite Rick’s protests that there are showers in Alexandria. Working ones. With knobs and everything. 

“I’m not walking around for the rest of the day smelling like this shit,” Negan says, loudly. Turning to Rick: “Who’s in charge of laundry around here, gorgeous?” 

Well, everyone’s in charge of their own, really. But Rick knows Negan will interpret that as permission to go into his house and make Michonne do their laundry, and he’s not having that, so, a little spitefully, he says it’s Eugene. 

Negan snorts. “Of course it is,” he says, and then, loud again: “Will someone go get fuckin’ Eugene?”

Five minutes later there’s fuckin’ Eugene, and Negan’s throwing his jacket, blood and guts and all, into his arms. “Wash that,” he says. “You ruin it and no one’s gonna be happy, we understanding each other?”

“My skills are better served—” Eugene starts, at which point Negan raises an eyebrow, Rick casts him a furtive, pleading glance, and thankfully, for once, Eugene seems to get it and keeps his mouth shut. Takes the jacket, and then the jeans too a moment later, leaving Negan stripped down in someone’s kitchen. Rick’s eyes drawn inexorably like the tide down to his shorts. Until Negan gives him a slap on his shoulders, says:

“You gonna give the man a job to do there, Rick?” Laughing while Rick fights off the blush threatening to stain his cheeks—he’s killed _people_ before, for fuck’s sake—and strips down too. Everything but the collar Negan gave him to wear, which miraculously didn’t get anything on it, and his shorts—hell, he wouldn’t take those off even if they did have blood on them, he’s got boundaries after all—and then handing it all over to Eugene with a vaguely apologetic look he hopes will go through. 

“You’re gonna bring us somethin’ to wear while we wait, right?” Negan asks. Though it’s not really a question, and Eugene apparently understands that too, because all he does is nod, and sort of rush out of the house with their bloody, walker-guts-drenched clothes in his hands. Leaving Rick and Negan alone for a moment. So that Negan, after the wall clock has ticked by for several seconds, glances over at Rick. Eyes dropping from his mouth, where they always seem to naturally rest, down his bare chest, skirting past the bullet wound on his ribs, down to his stomach. He reaches over with his thumb, trails it up the line of hair that disappears into Rick’s shorts. 

“You growin’ this for me?” he asks, that little self-satisfied amused smirk playing at the edge of his mouth. 

Two months into the whole arrangement and Rick still never quite knows how to handle this much physical attention from one person. Especially a person like Negan, who is so intense about every single fucking thing he does it occasionally hurts to look in his direction. Like he’s so crammed full of all the energy he holds in himself it’s shining through in some invisible but still over-powerful light. Rick’s been finding it harder and harder of late to remember that he’s supposed to hate Negan, at least while he’s around. When he’s around he’s virile and volatile and so commanding of every little aspect of the moment it’s nearly suffocating, to the point where there’s no concentrating on anything that isn’t him. Afterwards when he leaves Alexandria again and doesn’t take Rick with him he finds himself able to breathe, and then to remember that he hates Negan, usually in that order. But when he’s here, or when Rick is there, it’s harmless to just sort of—give over and forget. For a little while. 

Negan’s thumb drifts up over Rick’s chest to his collar— _Negan’s,_ like the whole damn world couldn’t tell already—and then onto his jaw, and then over the rough patch of skin on his forehead where he skinned himself not an hour ago on the pavement trying to get away from the walkers they were fighting. It stings and it’s embarrassing, it isn’t like Rick to get caught in a group of walkers, and it certainly isn’t like Negan either. He has the feeling they’re going to be avoiding the subject, possibly Negan will kill anyone who asks just on principle what they were doing and why their clothes are in such a state. But Negan’s thumb scrapes his cut and he says:

“You gotta be more careful out there next time, gorgeous. Gotta keep you around for a little while longer,” which is code, Rick supposes, for something Negan refuses to say out loud. Or maybe even acknowledge to himself. 

Then the door’s opening again and Eugene reappears, carrying a bundle of clothes. He looks flustered, drops them on the floor, turns to leave. Negan takes a step back from Rick, walks forward. 

“What’s this?” he asks, kicking at the bag with his toe. (Big toe, right foot. Rick has had that toe in his mouth a few times, though thankfully almost always when it was cleaner than it is right now.) 

Eugene clears his throat. His eyes keep skipping between Rick and Negan and Rick wonders if he’s going to say anything to anyone after he leaves. “You asked me to provide you with clean clothes and I have provided as such.”

Negan picks the bag up; when he bends down to do so Rick helplessly finds himself watching the bend of his spine and the curve of his ass. There are old, white scars along the base of the spine that Rick has never and probably will never be allowed to ask about, a few scattered ones about the shoulders that look more like burns than anything made by a knife. One gunshot wound almost directly on the right shoulder blade. Rick has touched each one at least once, though always in the dark and always while scratching at Negan’s back during sex. Never in a contemplative way, as Negan has done with him, and his scars. It isn’t fair. It just isn’t.

There are things in the bag of clothes which Rick would not expect to see. Negan reaches into the bag and pulls out four of the things Rick was really, really not expecting to see. Two pairs of loose-fitting sweatpants with elastic waists and so much extra length at the legs Rick is afraid he’ll trip—he can’t envision Negan tripping, being that Negan is about as tall as the ceiling in this room. The other two things—Rick can’t even believe something like this has survived the apocalypse—are jackets, themed. An Eeyore hoodie and a Pikachu hoodie. With character faces. Bright coloring. The Pikachu has a little tail and both have floppy ears and Eugene looks like he’s trying not to laugh. 

Negan gives Eugene a look that shuts his smile down real quick. “This was all they had,” he doesn’t really ask, gripping the Pikachu hoodie in both broad, gun-worn hands. 

“Yes,” Eugene says. 

Negan shoots a glance over his shoulder at Rick. Rick shrugs, drops his eyes. He hears Negan blow out a breath, is afraid for a moment that Lucille will be snatched up from her current resting place against the wall and Eugene’s brains will be splattered on the wooden floor, but Negan just grunts out:

“Get the fuck outta here, go clean our shit,” and then there’s footsteps and the door slamming shut. When Rick looks up again Negan is holding out the Eeyore hoodie to him, as well as the navy blue sweats, keeping Pikachu and the pale pink ones for himself. 

“Uh,” Rick says, staring. Negan snorts. Shakes the clothes.

“Don’t be shy, Rick,” in that usual over-the-top way he has of speaking. “Own this shit. Put the damn clothes on, princess,” and as is usual with obeying Negan’s orders Rick feels like he’s blinked and then discovered himself wearing an Eeyore hoodie Judith might have enjoyed in another lifetime. The pants are a little tight, but he doesn’t complain, just zips the hoodie up and watches, dumbstruck, as Negan pulls Pikachu over his head and slips into pink sweatpants that are definitely too small on him. Even so he somehow manages to get them to hang off his hips and Rick wonders if he’s got some kind of special power that enables all his pants to just barely cling to him. He looks savage and dangerous even dressed like that, it’s something in the way he holds himself. Though the effect is somewhat diminished when he lifts the hood over and the little ears flop to the sides. Rick smiles before he remembers he hasn’t been given permission to, but Negan doesn’t seem to care. For once. Shockingly. Under the Pikachu hood it almost looks like he’s smiling too. 

They walk out back together to the porch. Sit on the steps. It’s chilly now with the sun starting to sink below the tree line and Rick sticks his hands in his pockets, staring at the wall. Negan presses their thighs together in a possessive sort of way, all warmth and soft clothes. Reaches over and turns Rick’s head towards him, stares for a few seconds before nodding in an approving sort of way. 

“Color suits you,” he says, and then grins. “You have got to shave this shit, by the way,” stroking Rick’s stubble. “It’s like a damn forest here.”

“Don’t hear you complaining about it when I’m sucking you off,” Rick grumbles, without thinking. But Negan just laughs, sounding more surprised than anything else. He lets Rick’s chin go, and they’re both quiet for a while. Until Rick starts shivering, despite Negan’s thigh pressed against his. At which point Negan tugs on his jacket sleeve, says:

“C’mere,” and pulls and shifts until Rick is settled mostly on his lap. One hand drifts down almost absently between Rick’s thighs, thumb skating over his dick in a way that makes a shivery burst of air escape his lips. 

“Shh,” Negan says. The other hand coming up to rest over Rick’s mouth. He starts working between Rick’s legs, squeezing, eventually slipping his hand below the waistband and wrapping his fingers around him. Stroking, fucking his slit with his thumb so that Rick’s muffled groans get louder and louder and every time, Negan’s biting at his neck, growling, “I don’t remember giving you permission to make any noise; you want the whole damn place to hear you?” and then stopping, torturously, until Rick remembers to shake his head and whimper out a:

“No,” against Negan’s palm. When he comes it’s unexpected and hard and makes his hips judder, even though Negan’s been holding him still by the waist. Immediately Negan’s hand shifts from Rick’s mouth down into his own pants, Rick can feel the pull and flex of his muscles, his wrist rubbing a little against Rick’s ass; there’s a tense sort of punched-out grunt from Negan a moment later, and then he releases Rick’s waist and he collapses, boneless, against Negan’s chest. The inside of the sweatshirt is too hot now, but he doesn’t dare take it off. The sun’s gone down far enough that Rick can’t see it anymore. Everything has that dim cast-over appearance to it afforded by evening. 

“Good boy,” Negan tells him, softly and mostly into his hair.

**Author's Note:**

> a very, very beautiful person did [art](http://interstellarsam.tumblr.com/post/153447928735/you-ever-read-a-fic-thats-so-perfect-a-single-tear) for this fic. check it out because it's adorable and the best thing i've ever seen in my life <3


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